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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27151372">Protector</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_deer_friend/pseuds/my_deer_friend'>my_deer_friend</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>My Deer Kinktober 2020 [15]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hamilton - Miranda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - 1840s, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Anal Sex, Angst, Duty, Kinktober, Kinktober 2020, Loneliness, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Not all is as it seems, in the kitchen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:40:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,081</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27151372</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_deer_friend/pseuds/my_deer_friend</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John watches the man on the black horse from the shadow of his porch, his broken-open shotgun slung over his shoulder. He’s undoubtedly a taxman, looking at the quality of his horse and the cut of his rich black coat, and no one else would be out here anyway - considering the acres and acres of desolate nothing in every direction.</p><p>The light breeze picks up the dust from the fields and sends it hissing over the dry wood of the porch. The bone-dry corn stalks rustle and whisper in its wake.</p><p>The man watches him, and he watches the man, until the clouds in the distance darken properly - an hour, maybe two, John doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. There’s a rumble of low and distant thunder. The man turns to look behind him at the rapidly gathering darkness, then turns back to John and spurs his horse forward.</p><p>---</p><p>(Prompt 18 - In the kitchen, Lams)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>My Deer Kinktober 2020 [15]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947265</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Protector</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A million thanks to @mariecherie for the beta read!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They send another tax collector. They always do.</p><p>John watches the man on the black horse from the shadow of his porch, his broken-open shotgun slung casually but visibly over his shoulder. </p><p>He’s chased off a dozen and shot at one. This will be no different.</p><p>The man seems to be watching him back, but it’s hard to tell with his face in the shadow of his wide brim. He’s smarter than the last one, at least, because he stays up on the ridge, well beyond the reach of John’s shells. But he’s undoubtedly a taxman, looking at the quality of his horse and the cut of his rich black coat. John can smell government men from ten miles off, and no one else would be out here anyway - considering the acres and acres of desolate nothing in every direction.</p><p>That’s all well and good. John’s got nowhere else to be.</p><p>The light breeze picks up the dust from the fields and sends it hissing over the dry wood of the porch. The bone-dry corn stalks rustle and whisper in its wake. He should burn the fields, John thinks, if he can scrape together enough money to hire a few men to help him. Might help preserve the dirt. It hasn’t rained in a year, and the topsoil is all ash anyway by now.</p><p>But it’s as though today intends to bring a sudden flurry of excitement after months of lonely vigil - because there are storm clouds brewing on the horizon behind the man on the horse. Rain would be a blessing. Perhaps if it returns on schedule this year, his father will bring the rest of the family back from the city, and John won’t be all alone tending fruitlessly to barren fields and guarding a worthless, nearly abandoned homestead.</p><p>But he’s the oldest son, so he has to do it.</p><p>The man watches him, and he watches the man, until the clouds behind him darken properly - an hour, maybe two, John doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. There’s a rumble of low and distant thunder. The man turns to look behind him at the rapidly gathering darkness, then turns back to John and spurs his horse forward.</p><p>He approaches at a sedate walk, reins long and loose, swaying in the saddle as the fine horse picks its way down the hill through the dry, rocky field. When he’s in closer range, he slowly lowers his hand to his holster, pulls out a revolver with two fingers, then clicks open the barrel and tilts it to show that it isn’t loaded. Then he holsters it again.</p><p>John watches the approach in silence, unmoving. The man’s face remains shrouded in shadow, so John studies his clothing - a little dusty, but neatly tailored and dyed a rich black - and his magnificent horse - black too, without any blemishes or markings to break the uniform sleekness of its coat other than the pink skin of its muzzle. The tack is polished mahogany-coloured leather with neat brass buckles that catch the afternoon sun. </p><p>When the man is within comfortable earshot, he halts his horse again, then raises a hand and removes his hat. </p><p>John was expecting his hair to be black, too, for some reason - but it’s a burnished red-gold, only partly tamed by a silky black ribbon. It’s striking against the navy-purple of the gathering clouds behind him. The man’s features are delicate and refined, like everything else about him.</p><p>It makes no matter. John doesn’t need him to come any closer for what he has to say.</p><p>He clicks his shotgun closed and lowers it to his side - not yet threatening, but ready.</p><p>“Ride on, stranger,” he calls, calm and clear. “There is nothing for you here.”</p><p>The man leans forward against the high pommel of his saddle, arms crossed. He squints into the shade of the porch as though trying to make John out. “John Laurens?” he asks.</p><p>Strange. The government men who come out this way ask for Henry; never him.</p><p>A wind whips up again, fluttering the man’s coattails and the horse’s long, glossy tail. Downdraft from the storm. John doesn’t flinch. He’s been tasting grit for as long as he can recall, so what’s a bit more in the folds of his skin and his clothes?</p><p>“You have no business here,” John says. </p><p>“I was hoping to call on your hospitality. Your sister sent me.”</p><p>“You’re lying.” Martha is just a girl - she has no truck with men like this.</p><p>There is another rumble in the distance, closer now. The man looks back again at the gathering clouds.</p><p>“I have a letter to prove it. But could we discuss this inside? Rain is coming.”</p><p>John stays still, looking out onto the horizon. There is no other homestead or shelter for miles, and even if he travels at a brisk pace, the man will not make the closest town before sundown, or before the storm overtakes him.</p><p>“Your father would have taught you the rules of hospitality, which dictate that you should offer me shelter,” the man reasons. “I will gladly sleep in the stables if that is all you are willing to extend.”</p><p>John turns to look at the sad lean-to that once housed their farm horses, all of which have long since been sold or killed. The structure is collapsing. With the coming storm, it would not be safe. </p><p>He sighs deeply. His father would not forgive such a breach in manners, regardless of who this man is.</p><p>“Very well. Hand me your gun.”</p><p>The man gives a small smile of relief and slides down from his saddle. He leads his horse over and unholsters the revolver again, then lays it down carefully on the railing next to John. It’s shiny, beautifully made, with clean, sharp lines. It doesn’t look like it’s ever been fired.</p><p>“The stables are too dangerous. You can tether your horse up here.” He waves across the long, low porch, which should keep away at least some of the wind and rain. “And you may come inside, but only to the kitchen.”</p><p>“Much obliged,” the man says pleasantly. “As long as it’s warm and dry, it will be better than anything I’ll find out here.”</p><p>John watches as the man unsaddles and ties up his horse, then offers it some grain from one of his saddlebags.</p><p>“Who are you?” John asks.</p><p>“Alexander. It’s a pleasure.”</p><p>“Are you a tax man?”</p><p>The man smiles. “No. I don’t take things away. I give them back.”</p><p>John doesn’t understand what this means, but he has no interest in conversation. He waits for Alexander to hoist up his saddle and then leads him inside. </p><p>Despite claiming not to be after his taxes, Alexander studies the inside of the homestead carefully. The lower floor is mostly one large open space, with a kitchen and hearth on one end and a small, dusty sitting area at the other; stairs lead up to the bedrooms, but John hasn’t been up there for as long as he can remember. It’s warmer downstairs. Avoiding the abandoned rooms also saves him from remembering how empty the house is.</p><p>But Alexander follows his instruction and steps over to the kitchen, drops his saddle in a corner and seats himself at the massive heavy-wood table.</p><p>John sits down at the other end, laying his shotgun on his lap.</p><p>He sees now that the man has bright violet eyes. They look unnatural; a little too light and clever. </p><p>It occurs to John that Alexander could be a thief or a criminal. But if so, he has chosen a poor target. There is nothing worth stealing here except maybe his shotgun, and John is not about to part with that. </p><p>“Ah, I promised you a letter,” Alexander says, and stands from the table. “And if you don’t mind, I will have something to eat as well. It’s been a long ride.”</p><p>Alexander produces a sealed letter and a wrapped bundle of bread, salted beef and apples. He spreads the food out on the table in front of himself and reaches the letter across, but John shakes his head. He’s not letting go of his weapon; not yet.</p><p>“Read it,” he says.</p><p>Alexander smiles in a knowing way. “Very well.” He breaks the seal. “It isn’t very long. It says: <em> My dearest brother Jack, I hope with all my heart that you are well, and despair that I cannot bring this letter to you in person. The bearer of it carries all of our esteem to you, and I hope you will assist him in any way he requests. </em> ” Alexander pauses and gives John a teasing look over the top of the page. “ <em> It is time for you to come home, big brother. You have guarded the homestead bravely, but you no longer need to do so. We release you from your duty. Yours ever, with love, Martha. </em>”</p><p>That certainly sounds like Martha, and that reassures him a little. But John sighs deeply. That may be well and good, but his father is the one who commanded him to stay - and until Henry tells him otherwise, the entreaties of a dear sister are futile.</p><p>“I am sorry that you have wasted all of your time coming to deliver that,” John says. “I’m not leaving.”</p><p>Alexander is silent for a moment, then turns to look at the cold, blackened hearth. “Would you mind if I started a fire?”</p><p>John’s eyes flicker to it, then right back to Alexander. It is darkening rapidly outside; a little light might be useful to keep an eye on this man in the nice black clothes.</p><p>“Firewood’s out back,” he says, and nods his head towards the kitchen door. Alexander stands, being sure to move carefully as he passes him, then vanishes out the door and returns with an armful of dusty logs. He stacks them neatly, then strikes a flame with a flint from his pocket. The amber light catches in his hair and makes it glow with matching fire.</p><p>Alexander sits back down. He picks up an apple, reaches it out to John, and then shrugs and bites into it when John refuses the offer with a silent shake of his head.</p><p>“What do you grow here?” Alexander asks lightly, once he’s swallowed the mouthful.</p><p>John looks out onto the barren fields. “Nothing.”</p><p>He smiles. “I mean, before?”</p><p>“Corn. Sorghum. We had beef cattle, long ago.”</p><p>“So what happened?”</p><p>“Rain stopped.”</p><p>“Curious,” Alexander says around a mouthful of bread. “The fields are heavy with grain just a half-day’s ride away.”</p><p>“Bad luck, then.”</p><p>Alexander hums. After a moment, he says, “I can share news and stories from the wider world, if you’d like to hear them?”</p><p>John considers for a moment, and then nods. There is something comforting about the sound of Alexander’s voice filling up the hollow space between them. </p><p>So John listens as Alexander talks about settler trains and small towns whose names he has not heard before, about fresh conflicts with the Indians, about whispers of gold further west. And Alexander has opinions, too, about all these things, and there is something clever and charming in the turns of phrase that he uses and the way that certain topics excite and aggravate him in turn. His face is an open canvas of emotion, and John allows himself to set his shotgun down against the cabinet beside him; whoever this man may be, his sweet words and sweet face no longer seem like an imminent danger.</p><p>When Alexander finishes his monologue, at long last, he rises from his chair and goes to stand next to the merry fire, warming his hands. It is fully dark by now - night, not just cloud - and the air feels especially dry.</p><p>John wants to see the colour that Alexander’s eyes turn in the light of the flames, so he stands up and joins him.</p><p>Alexander is studying him curiously; his eyes are a richer royal purple now, as though they have drunk in the red of the fire. “It must be quiet out here.”</p><p>John hums. He likes the quiet.</p><p>“Lonely too.”</p><p>He likes that less. “I guess so.”</p><p>“So why do you stay?”</p><p>John frowns. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”</p><p>“Humour me,” Alexander urges. </p><p>There doesn’t seem to be any harm in sharing the truth. “I need to. For my family. My father ordered me to take care of our home until he is able to gather enough fortune to return.”</p><p>Alexander purses his lips and looks away, as though this is not a very good reason. “And this - this exile - it doesn’t bother you?”</p><p>John narrows his brows. “I’ve been here so long that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to not be alone.” He stares down at the floor. How long <em> has </em> it been? A year? A decade? It’s all blurred into one endless string of sunrises and sunsets and mocking cloudless skies.</p><p>“Ah,” Alexander says, as though this has answered some unasked question. “When was the last time you didn’t feel alone?”</p><p>He asks the question so kindly that John cannot help but answer. “I think I’ve always felt it. I have always been different.”</p><p>Alexander smiles more warmly now, and reaches out to touch the back of John’s hand, which is hanging at his side. His fingers are warm and soft. But being touched feels utterly foreign, if not unpleasant, so John pulls his hand back a little.</p><p>Alexander’s touch follows him. “I know what it means to feel alone, John,” he says earnestly, wrapping his fingers around his palm. “To feel misunderstood. To want things that you should not want.”</p><p>John swallows heavily. How could he know? It seems that this Alexander, with his perceptive violet eyes, has read more of him than he intended to reveal. </p><p>He doesn’t pull his hand away again. </p><p>Alexander steps backwards towards the broad kitchen table, leading John with him, and when his thighs come into contact with it, he stretches his free arm behind him for balance and seats himself on the surface. He spreads his legs open and tugs on John’s hand. John steps wordlessly closer. Right between his thighs. Like every wicked dream he’s ever had.</p><p>“What are you doing?” John asks hoarsely, suddenly afraid. It feels impossible that this could be happening.</p><p>Alexander smiles, and his fire-flushed cheeks push up delightfully. “You have borne so many burdens, John. Is it not time to take some reward for yourself?”</p><p>John hesitates. “This is immoral.” So he has been told by the bible, the priests, his father, his uncles. </p><p>“Can such a genuine desire for contact really be wrong?”</p><p>“It is sinful.”</p><p>Alexander raises John’s hand to his lips and kisses it, firm but reverent. “Does this <em> feel </em> sinful?”</p><p>“Yes,” John breathes. God, yes.</p><p>Alexander’s smile turns darker, and he kisses John’s hand again. “Perhaps you have the wrong understanding of sin, John? Don’t you deserve a reprieve from your long, lonely vigil?”</p><p>John stares at Alexander with a dark suspicion that crowds out even his sudden yearning to give in to this freely offered temptation. “Who <em> are </em> you?” he asks softly.</p><p>Alexander’s eyes turn intent and serious. “I am here to help you.” His free hand reaches out to the side of John’s face, and before John can breathe or speak, Alexander has pulled him down into a burning kiss.</p><p>Lord, this <em> must </em> be sin, the way it coils a fire up from his belly. And yet, there is no cold chill of fear on his neck, no tight clenching between his ribs. Alexander’s hands and lips are warm and careful; the heat from the fire radiates off his cheeks. Perhaps--?</p><p>He has never kissed a man like this before, but his body knows instinctively what to do. In a second he is kissing back, stepping in closer between the spread thighs, into the growing circle of heat between them. He remembers that he has a hand hanging idly at his side, so he places it carefully on Alexander’s knee. </p><p>Alexander moans quietly against his lips, an utterly delightful sound - rough and eager. John wants to hear it again, so he slides his hand up a little, and this time he parts his lips so that he can swallow the breathy gasp into his own mouth. </p><p>Alexander’s calves wrap around the backs of John’s thighs and draw him in closer into the circling heat of his legs. Alexander lets go of his hand, but only so that it can tug loose John’s linen shirt and drag it over his head - and when Alexander touches his chest in a way that is both ardent and worshipful, John feels a warmth kindle deep in his chest that he can scarcely recall the name of.</p><p>With his hands freed, John slides the black coat off Alexander’s shoulders and sets to the buttons of his beautifully embroidered waistcoat. It is made difficult only because Alexander is relentless in his kisses, and John can scarcely breathe or think around them, and they set a desperate shaking in his fingertips. But he works it free at last and pulls it off too, and then tears off the soft black undershirt beneath it.</p><p>Without releasing John’s mouth or tongue or the back of his neck, Alexander shifts and lowers himself back onto the table. John climbs up after him; the wood is sturdy and will hold them easily. John pulls free the black silk ribbon and digs his hand into the fiery hair, almost surprised that it does not burn him.</p><p>Alexander writhes and sighs below him, strains up to press their bodies together, and again John thinks - this is <em> impossible. </em> But he is too far gone to stop or question it now.</p><p>Alexander reaches between them to unfasten and unlace his pants, then cants up his hips to tug them down - and the sudden press of their cocks is a delirium. John groans fiercely.</p><p>“Help me?” Alexander says, tugging at his pants, and John is off the table in a flash. He leans down to yank off the shiny black leather boots; the spurs jangle softly as he tosses them aside. Then he reaches for the pants and pulls them off in one fierce tug and throws them heedlessly behind him.</p><p>No, this <em> cannot </em> be sin. It is too beautiful. <em> Alexander </em> is too beautiful. His lean stomach and long legs and perfectly flushed cock. His swollen lips and strange violet eyes and hair like a flaming sunset.</p><p>John can’t help but stare through long-starved eyes, the breath rushing in and out of his lungs. </p><p>Alexander smiles, and John remembers that he could be touching, not just looking. He tears off his own pants and climbs swiftly back up. The hard surface of the table is rough against his knees and shins now, as he grips around Alexander’s hips and pulls his backside closer against his groin.</p><p>“Do you have lamp oil? Grease?” Alexander breathes.</p><p>John hasn’t had these things for as long as he can remember. He shakes his head no.</p><p>Alexander spits into his own hand, and the back of it brushes against the underside of John’s shaft as he lowers it between his own legs. John looks down and stares, mesmerised, as Alexander works his long fingers into himself carefully - first two, then three. </p><p>The thighs gripping around John’s hips begin to tremble. Alexander bites at his lip and sighs.</p><p>Then the hand shifts and all of a sudden John feels it wrap around him and - lord - that hot grip is heaven. But it is nothing compared to the feeling when Alexander guides John’s cockhead to his entrance and then curls his hips up and allows John to breach him - and then tightens his legs around John’s hips to draw him all the way down into the tightness and heat of his body.</p><p>They are moaning in tandem, now. John’s arms shake, so he lowers down onto his elbows and presses his forehead against Alexander’s, and at the moment he is fully seated he dashes their lips together again because he wants to feel inside every part of him at once.</p><p>Alexander's trembling body welcomes him, and his hips thrust up in little delirious pulses. John draws his own hips back, until he is almost all the way out, and then drives in, slow but firm.</p><p>Alexander exhales in pleasure, so John does it again, slow but harder. And again, and again, until all he can think of is this divine motion and the heavenly man below him.</p><p>Alexander throws his head back and groans, revealing a perfect length of delicate throat. John cannot help but lower his mouth to it, to lick and taste, and Alexander’s hands claw at his shoulders in eager delight. Their bodies twist and writhe together and John tries to go slow, because he wants this to last.</p><p>But the call of his pleasure is too much to resist forever, and John starts to thrust faster, more roughly. Alexander matches him. His moans become desperate urging whimpers, so John wedges a hand between the tight press of their bodies and grips around his cock. It takes only a moment for Alexander to keen and arch and release hotly into his hand - the sight of this, the sound, the feel of Alexander tightening against him is all that John needs to throw him over the edge and spill deep inside the shaking body beneath him.</p><p>There is a sudden, fierce flash of lightning that catches in Alexander’s violet eyes - and a moment later, a booming clap of thunder and a startled whinny from the horse tethered outside. </p><p>Distantly in its echo, something like faint tapping.</p><p>Rain!</p><p>Alexander’s smile below him is molten bliss. He makes no move to pull away, so John kisses him again. There is less urgency and more sweetness to it now, but all of the same passion.</p><p>The rain patters. Then, in a rush, it starts to drum heavily.</p><p>He feels Alexander’s lips turn up into a smile, so he eases back because he wants to see it.</p><p>“I think you are finally ready, John,” Alexander says.</p><p>“Ready for what?”</p><p>“To go home.”</p><p>John frowns down softly. “I cannot leave until my father releases me.”</p><p>Alexander sighs, and brings a hand up to stroke his face. “Your father is dead, John.”</p><p>“What?” Somehow this news is both shocking and unsurprising.</p><p>“He’s been dead for decades.”</p><p>That’s not possible. John has only been here for-- Wait. How long <em> has </em> it been? “I don’t understand.”</p><p>Alexander smiles, kindly and a little sadly. “That’s okay. This can be difficult. Let yourself remember.”</p><p>John thinks to the dry stalks in the barren fields; to the dead farm horses; to the collapsing stable; to the hollow and silent and cobwebbed rooms upstairs. He distantly remembers cold and hunger, then their absence. Now that he considers it, he can’t recall when last he ate, or slept - or thought about eating or sleeping. He thinks of the dust and sand piled high in every corner. </p><p>He thinks about the room upstairs where he lay down in his bed for the last time. </p><p>How he slept, darkly and deeply, but then could not stay sleeping any longer.</p><p>How he stayed, and waited, and did his duty.</p><p>“How long has it been?” he whispers.</p><p>“Long enough,” Alexander says. “Your mother is waiting for you, John. Your brothers, and your father. It’s time to set aside your charge and be at peace.”</p><p>John buries his face in the crook of Alexander’s neck; Alexander’s legs are still tight around his hips and his arms are holding him gently. One hand is stroking through his hair, easing out the tangles. </p><p>The drumming rain. </p><p>A faint smell of wet earth. </p><p>He is warm. </p><p>Perhaps he could allow himself a little rest.</p><p>But this feels so nice - just being held and touched - that he holds on a little longer.</p><p>Alexander kisses the crown of his head, and says, as though reading his mind, “Take your time. I will stay here with you until you are ready.”</p><p>John marvels at what duty or kindness has brought Alexander all the way out here, to this infinitely lonely corner of nowhere, just to deliver this priceless gift.</p><p>“Thank you,” he says.</p><p>And then John allows himself to close his eyes and dissolve away into the rain and the night air.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>You might have some questions... :D </p><p>Drop them in the comments or come chat on tumblr - @my-deer-friend</p></blockquote></div></div>
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